The Overlarge Daemon
by TheOutgriber
Summary: Millicent Bletchley has a problem. A very big problem...


Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on _Lyra's Oxford_ by Philip Pullman. I'm just borrowing his world temporarily.

Author's note: Out of Pullman's works, I have only read _Lyra's Oxford._ I realize that there is much more to the series, but for the purposes of this work, I was most interested in exploring the question of what life with an elephant daemon would be like. Any inconsistencies with canon are unintentional. Please review!

The Overlarge Daemon

Millicent Bletchley had never liked large animals. They scared her, as did most things. Therefore, when her daemon abruptly settled into the form of an elephant, after years of seemingly contented rodenthood, young Millie was understandably perturbed. What made matters worse was that the clumsy thing never wanted to be more than a few meters away. One could not trip daintily down the street in a new lace pinafore when followed by such a great, oafish creature. China shops were out of the question.

Life became a rather complicated affair for young Millie. To her dismay, she couldn't even attend her normal school classes. For a while, the arrangement was that the teachers would shout the lesson out the window, passing down slates and paper to her using a system of pulleys. Millie moved rooms so that the daemon could reside in the side garden, out of view of the church. Going to bed at night, she had to push her four poster bed as close to the outer wall as possible and sleep with the window propped open. "I've no words for it," a famous daemonologist said, rearranging his silver whiskers nervously. "Completely out of the blue as well."

"What a shame," ladies whispered behind their fans, daemons aflutter. "Such a respectable, promising young girl she was." Workmen muttered to themselves about crushed cobblestones and cracks in the road. Her schoolmates tried to be cordial, but their fluffy little squirrels and ferrets scuttled out of sight whenever Millie drew near.

As for the daemon, it only spoke when spoken to, and Millie never spoke to it at all; one mustn't speak to traitors. And so weeks passed, then months. The shopkeepers no longer said, "Good morning, Miss Millicent," as she walked by on Cornmarket Street. Millie grew sullen, downcast. Men stopped touching their caps to her. It seemed that the longer Millie's daemon stayed the same, the less willing the people of Oxford were to accommodate her. The schoolmasters grew hoarse from shouting, and the headmistress eventually asked Millie to withdraw. "It isn't about you, dear…it's just that…we feel that the safety of the other pupils may be compromised. We have to consider the impression this makes on younger minds, you know."

The worst of it was seeing those little moments of epiphany when her parents discovered, bit by bit, that having an elephant for a daughter was not, in fact, socially advantageous. As a vicar, Millie's father was especially appalled that church attendance had decreased as a result of Millie's unusual development. "Sorry, Vicar. There's just a bit of an elephant in the room now, if you know what I mean," Mister Brimble remarked, rummaging for a calming cigar on his way out of the last service he attended.

Upon hearing of her de facto expulsion, Mr. Trickelbank offered her a place in his traveling circus. At first, Millie recoiled from the notion. She had endured enough staring as it was, and she could not fathom why anyone would voluntarily submit to such humiliation. She went on, ignoring her daemon's faux-pas as well as she could. Yet, something about the idea of traveling stuck with her.

Late one evening, her mother's voice floated through her bedroom window. Millie had been sent to bed early while her parents went out for the night. Though she knew it was terribly rude, she crept to the window to listen. "I thought it was a productive meeting," Mrs. Bletchley remarked, mincing carefully up the walk. The elephant snuffled from the garden. Mrs. Bletchley stiffened and opened her parasol, then continued as if the daemon weren't there at all. "Quite," Mr. Bletchley agreed. "That whole caging idea sounds ingenious. Seems to me the daemon would just shrink down, like a bonsai tree." Her mother's daemon, a white ermine, shifted nervously, but said nothing, as usual. "And if that doesn't work…" She trailed off, her voice brittle. "There are other ways," her father said, though his hand reached instinctively to find the mouse daemon nestled deep beneath the cravat in his collar.

At that, something within Millie pulled loose. She recoiled from the window, heart pounding. When her mother peered in at her soon after, Millie snored loudly. Mrs. Bletchley left. Hours later, Millie rose and smoothed her nightgown. "Lucada?" she called, and the elephant slowly turned her considerable bulk to face the window. "It's about time," Lucada huffed.

Within the hour, they were lumbering down a back street, Millie clinging to the leathery folds of Lucada's back. There was nothing quiet or graceful about it, but then again, why should there be? Asking an elephant to be stealthy, even under cover of misty darkness, is just unreasonable. Lucada splashed through a puddle. "Careful!" Millie whispered severely. Lucada stopped short, stuck her trunk in the water, and showered her unceremoniously. "Augh!" Millie cried, digging her fingers in a little deeper. A few bleary-eyed men peered out their doors, shook their heads, and shuffled back to bed.

The remaining denizens on the streets at this hour tottered away, gaping. "You ride like a sack of potatoes," Lucada grumbled. "I beg your pardon. You're no prize mare," Millie retorted. "Well, _I_ sure as hell didn't ask to be the inward soul of such a small, killjoy human," said Lucada. "I'd be able to go faster if you wouldn't slip down every half-second." Millie wished that she could sit up enough to tug on an ear. Thus they continued, exchanging barbs as they searched in vain for the edge of the city. Millie had never traveled so far unescorted, let alone past three in the morning. This was, without a doubt, the most dangerous experience of her life. Whenever she tried to sit up, it put her skirts in disarray, as her mother would've called it.

Lucada rolled her eyes as well as an elephant can, unsure what to say to such concerns. Then, she trumpeted in pain. Her distress reverberated through Millie. She looked down. A capped figure, reeling forward, had just smashed an ale bottle against Lucada's side and was now muttering to himself. Millie shuddered at the violation. Lucada snuffled and stomped, warning the little man away. The man's anxious daemon nipped at the back of his neck. He staggered back and swore, clearly inebriated. "Run," Millie croaked, pressing herself into Lucada's back. Lights began to appear. "Run!" Millie repeated, and Lucada pushed off.

Forward they thundered, passing street after street. They flew past Queen Street, George Street, and the Ashmolean, past the Martyr's Memorial, even past the Iron Works, which Millie had never been permitted to visit. They left the city and didn't look back. They only slowed when they came to the grassy river bank. Millie all but rolled off Lucada, who stumbled into the shallows of the river, panting heavily. Millie flopped into the grass nearby like a ragdoll, not thinking for once about the state of her petticoats. She looked up. Out here, the sky was an unbroken field of stars. No gas lamps, no chimney smoke, no spires to hem it in. Here was the beginning of the world beyond. Millie's heart fluttered, from fear and something else, something more mysterious. She gathered herself up into a ball, squinting against the sudden snap of the wind.

"Well, I suppose that's that," Lucada announced, flapping her veiny ears to shake off the water. Millie sat up. "Will you…travel with me?" Millie asked. "Do I have a choice?" Lucada replied. They couldn't help but chuckle. Yet, it was true, Millie realized. They could never go back, but they couldn't stay there. Still in the dark and chilled to the bone, they set off again, following a star that bobbed on the horizon, the first son of the morning.


End file.
